You Can’t Eat a View

YOU CAN’T EAT A VIEW

That's what my mom said. Brochview, where I grew up. Halfway up the steepest hill, blattered by sea gales, penned in by nosy sheep, with salt-crust windows that eyed that broch in all its solid, blocked squatness. Smug old pile of stone is what it was. And I a weaver's daughter, and holding the requisite ever-knitting mother. Tourists had expectations of me – oh my days just gazing at the cliffs and contours of that island that belonged to that broch. We all belon...

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